


Visiting

by yeaka



Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:58:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diaval discovers a salvageable human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visiting

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I might write more of these two later, I just wanted to set up the possibility so I could get to some Diaval slash~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Maleficent or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s difficult to listen to Stefan—whom Diaval refuses to acknowledge as a king—sometimes. He didn’t start out this way, of course. When Diaval first took to perching about the castle, he didn’t know the true depths of Stefan’s crime, didn’t want to hurt his mistress by asking, and all he saw was a young, handsome man with a less than genuine personality. That beauty has chipped away in the years, mostly under creeping paranoia, bouts of estranged cruelty and general bursts of madness. The first time Diaval saw his mistress’ great wings pinned up in a cage, he thought he’d be sick. 

And now, he still looks, still checks, gathers what information he can, anything that will help protect his home, protect Maleficent. But sometimes it’s simply too much, watching a mad king grow madder and destroy everything in his wake. 

So Diaval opts for saner options. He checks in on the queen, while she’s alive, finds her a bland waif of a thing unfairly bound to a man no woman could really _love_. She doesn’t know much, isn’t anything of a threat, and sometimes Diaval flies over soldiers, but they blather on about mortal things he couldn’t care less about, and human armies are such _boring_ things. He stops in with noblemen, but they’re just as dry, and the servants never know anything of value. It isn’t until long after Aurora’s birth and the queen’s death that Diaval tries circling the towers, where residents come and go, most unable to serve under Stefan for long. But Diaval still watches. As Aurora gets older, he knows Stefan will become more aggressive, his army a greater threat; Maleficent’s told Diaval the story of the curse, and he can’t imagine any father wouldn’t grow fierce as the day of his daughter’s end approached. Aurora isn’t even of his blood, not even his species, and yet Diaval would do just about anything to protect her. Short of hurting Maleficent, of course. So he spends more time—whenever Aurora is busy with her aunts and Maleficent has no need of him—keeping an eye on the human kingdom.

In summer, he finds a tower open that was shut away all winter, the windows too dusty on the outside to see through, and the decorations inside are different than the year before, if his memory serves. It used to be something of a storeroom. But now there’s a man at a beat-up wooden desk inside, half dressed in chain mail with stands of armour scattered about the room, odd weapons hanging from walls and a large map pinned up to a board, handwritten notes scribbled around the edges. The man looks close in years to Diaval’s human form, except this man’s nose is more round, his skin darker, his hair shorter and not quite so sleek. Maybe _almost_ as handsome. But Diaval is a raven, and most humans, were they birds, would be little more than common crows. 

The man looks up from his desk at the flapping silhouette in the window, and for a moment, Diaval is absolutely still. His talons dig into the stone, flexed and ready to spring at any moment—some soldiers find sport in flinging things at birds. This man is a soldier, he thinks—the captain of Stefan’s guards? But it’s difficult to know, and few humans are worthy of trust. 

The man sighs. There are dark circles under his eyes, but most of the men that serve below Stefan look like that: like they’d give anything for a good night’s rest and a sane king. This one mutters to himself, “A bad sign, I suppose. He’s gone too mad.”

Diaval, before he can stop himself, makes a squawking noise, because he most certainly is _not_ mad, but then he has to settle down, wings shifting against his sides—right, of course, the human wouldn’t be talking to him. He’s only a bird to them, no more sentient than a rock. A rock from this side of the wall, anyway. The man looks back at him, frowning, then bursts into a sudden laugh, waves the hand of his that isn’t holding a quill and says, “Not you, raven. The king. I apologize if I offended.” Diaval tilts his head to the side, blinking. 

It’s rare that humans recognize him for what he is—they call him a crow, or just a bird, not acknowledging his true beauty. And then there’s the fact that this one _spoke_ to him, but that can’t be right; the only human that ever _speaks_ to him is Aurora, and she’s _special_.

Perhaps this human is less than sane too, and Diaval harrumphs to himself at the prospect. A crazed king with a crazed captain. Lovely. All the handsome men he sees turn out wrong. But the man doesn’t do it again; he looks back at the scroll stretched across his desk, the quill in his hand scratching to life. Something about seeing humans write with quills always gets to Diaval, and he shifts restlessly on his perch, the warm sunlight licking the back half of him while the cool air of the castle wafts past his beak. The man seems to have no more to say to him, but information in this room could still be useful, and he skims the maps and notes lining the wall, not quite skilled enough in human writing to read from the distance but gathering general concepts from diagrams. A few minutes later, the man gets up from his desk and stretches out his arms, making that cute face Aurora sometimes makes when she’s tired. With a strange nod in Diaval’s direction, the man turns and heads for the door.

He leaves it ajar behind him, but Diaval’s had too many poor experiences trapped in the confines of the castle to stray far from the windows. He swoops inside and skims the inner circle instead, taking a closer look at everything and committing most to memory. Last, he soars to the desk, lands against the edge, steadies himself and begins to read the captain’s notes. Troop movements, he finds, and suggestions of where they could be placed more effectively—not, to Diaval’s approval, all about the wall. Apparently, the captain isn’t so pleased with Stefan’s idea of how to utilize an entire army against one lone woman who hasn’t even been seen for over a decade. If only he knew the half of it. Usually, Diaval assumes that meeting Maleficent wouldn’t do much to change most human’s minds, for they’re stubborn, vile things, and her kindness is deeper and more guarded than her general splendor. But this human, perhaps, might not be so surprised to find her a being far more worthy of a throne than Stefan ever was. 

Diaval’s just finishing up the last paragraph when the door to the room pushes wide again, and he crooks his head around at the creak of it. The dark man is back, a tray of food now in his hands. He looks at Diaval in mild surprise, and Diaval shifts his body slowly forward, ready to take off at the first sign of danger. 

But he’s so _close_ to finishing, and humans are never fast enough to catch him anyway, and this one holds no weapon. Diaval waits a few tense seconds to see if the human will move, but he doesn’t, and so Diaval puts his head back around and eyes the scroll, devouring the last three sentences. 

The man starts moving on the last word, but it’s those slow, deliberate steps that humans only take when they’re trying not to startle something. Diaval hops to a different angle, eyeing the man, and watches the steps grow closer, still waiting for danger. He’s only distantly aware that he could fly off—he has more information than he’s found in months—because it’s been so long since he’s met a human that’s intrigued him, and surely some are out there that are good, like Aurora, and it’s hard for Diaval to get any respect like this man’s given him...

By the time the man reaches his desk, Diaval still hasn’t left. He’s hopped to the corner of the desk, far enough that he could take off before the man reached out to him, but still closer than he’s ever been to a soldier. The man puts his plate down on the table—bread and cheese—and asks, “Did you like my plans, raven?”

Diaval open his beak and makes a nonsense call, because he spends so much time in his other form now that sometimes his vocal cords get confused. He hears human speech, and he wants to answer in human. He’d tell this man _yes_ , and then perhaps even try to turn him against Stefan; maybe they could just mutiny and get him out of power and stop living under the fear of armies clawing at their walls. The man smiles as though he understands Diaval’s agreement, and he nods, pushing the plate off his scroll. “Now, if only the king would agree...”

Eyes fixed on his proposal, he picks up the bread and takes a hardy bite. For a moment, he’s clearly lost in thought, and Diaval is busy pondering his own ludicrous plans of overthrowing the monarchy and leaving his mistress forever safe, and then the man pauses to stare at his bread. He glances thoughtfully at Diaval, then breaks a small chunk off the end. 

He holds the sizeable crumb towards Diaval and announces, “Here, my friend. A handsome bird such as yourself deserves a good meal.” A _handsome_ bird. Diaval’s chest gets a spike of pleasure and pride at the compliment. Their admiration of one another’s shells is mutual, then. If Diaval could, he would say that his human form is just as attractive, now that he’s grown used to it and learned to operate it with grace. As he can’t say anything, he tilts his head and seizes his reward in his beak. It’s still warm and exceedingly fluffy. He swallows it down while the human chews and looks at him, most likely admiring the view. 

When the human reaches out another hand, Diaval puffs himself up bravely. He lets the generous human touch the back of his head, stroke down his neck and over his back, careful not to touch his wings as they ruffle behind him. It isn’t exactly how one pats a bird—he isn’t a dog—but it’s a good thought and could be pleasurable with a few corrections. On the next stroke, Diaval leans in the right direction to guide the human’s fingers properly, and the human laughs and learns. For the first time in a long while, Diaval feels bizarrely appreciated. 

He might like some company, he realizes. He loves Maleficent in his own way, but it would be nice to share the company of someone who couldn’t transform him out of words to shut him up at the drop of a hat. He loves Aurora too, but she’s young and very different from him, and sometimes she and Maleficent have their own bond, special and wondrous, that Diaval wouldn’t want to intrude on. It would be nice to have his own friend, he thinks, perhaps one that understands beauty and loyalty and is good enough to share a meal with. 

When the captain finishes his meal, he turns back to his work, and Diaval understands. The man’s hands retreat to fishing through his notes and plans and writing more down, so Diaval’s massages must end. After a few minutes of primping in the corner of the desk, Diaval flaps up to the captain’s shoulder, talons gripping the chain mail in lieu of flesh. The captain looks up at him proudly, like he’s some glorious trophy that boasts their mutual honour. 

By the time the sun is setting, Diaval has been fed many things and stroked and told various snippets of gossip and plans. He’s resolved to speak with Maleficent; perhaps these recon missions would be doable in human form, or perhaps, even more exciting a prospect, he could learn to control his shifts himself, fly into his friend’s window, respond to all these questions and statements he’s told, and fly off in a heartbeat after. 

But he’ll still have to sleep. When it’s truly dark, he knows the man will sleep soon—he yawns a few times and seems to sag in his chair. Diaval himself must get back to his mistress. He flutters his wings once as warning, drawing the man’s attention. 

Then he’s leaping into the air and soaring off, pleased to hear a, “Come by again, raven,” on the wind.


End file.
